


Out of Trouble

by Caeslin



Series: TezuRyo age gap AUs [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Dubious Ethics, Guilt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10415232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeslin/pseuds/Caeslin
Summary: Any officer would have noticed the car, but only Tezuka would recognize that it's a different car from the one Ryoma got out of last week.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://pbam.dreamwidth.org/9520.html?thread=349232#cmt349232) for Porn Battle Prompt Stack 2, for the prompts "temptation," "worry," "young" and "experience." Also crossposted to [Livejournal](http://caeslin.livejournal.com/14847.html) and [Dreamwidth](http://caeslin.dreamwidth.org/14381.html).
> 
>  **Fic Contains** : bigger age gap than in canon (adult x teenager), a dubiously consensual blowjob, references to offscreen prostitution, and Tezuka trying but generally failing to be the upstanding and responsible authority figure that Ryoma needs.

Tezuka had been on patrol when he saw Ryoma get out of the car. It was a perfectly reasonable thing to notice; this late at night, the streets are quiet, with few pedestrians and fewer vehicles. Even if that wasn't the case, a Porsche would stand out, particularly when it stopped to let out a boy in a school uniform. Any police officer would make note of that much.

But no other officer would notice that this is a different car from the one Ryoma got out of last week. And they certainly wouldn't recognize Ryoma himself on sight. 

Tezuka made sure to jot down the plate number of the car as it drove away, but the familiar weight of the notebook in his breast pocket now is doing nothing to ease the knot of tension in his chest.

Ryoma wasn't happy about being marched off to the police box, but it's the only place Tezuka could think to take him. It's his duty as an officer to look out for Ryoma. To finally do something to help him, instead of just watch.

Now they're here. He's offered to help Ryoma draft a police report, drive him home, call his parents or even contact one of his friends, but Ryoma is being as recalcitrant as always. He denies that he needs any assistance. Without his last name, Tezuka can't guess his address. Even his belongings are no help; the only things he's currently carrying are a ratty baseball cap, a phone he refuses to unlock, and 20,000 yen that he insists is allowance from his father.

At this point it's looking like the only option left is to let him back on the street, and that's the one thing that would make Tezuka more ashamed of himself than keeping Ryoma here, where at least Tezuka can keep him out of trouble for a little while.

He doesn't let himself look at the small, reddish bruise that's peeking out of Ryoma's shirt collar.

He doesn't let himself wonder how many more there are under his clothes.

"Hey Officer," Ryoma says, swinging his feet in the chair. Tezuka has told Ryoma his name before. Ryoma has never used it. "I'm thirsty. You got anything to drink?"

It's the first actual request he's made all night; Tezuka takes it as a hopeful sign . 

"There's a vending machine in the back," he says. "What do you want?" Then he remembers that he can't very well leave Ryoma alone at his desk. "If you'd like, you can come with and point something out."

Ryoma hops out of his chair and follows. Evidently free drinks will secure his obedience in a way that the weight of the law does not.

Once they're at the machine, Ryoma immediately selects a bottle of Ponta that's sure to turn his tongue an unnatural color. Tezuka's teeth hurt just watching him drink it. He buys a can of hot tea for himself, in the hope that it will help settle the nerves he gets whenever he's in close quarters with Ryoma.

With any luck, Ryoma will be more willing to cooperate after his drink. If he doesn't want to file a report, or even talk about what happened tonight, maybe he'll agree to at least let Tezuka send him home by taxi. 

Instead, when he caps the bottle, he just looks around at the room. "Huh, even your top-secret break room is boring."

"It's not top-secret." Though technically, letting Ryoma into the back room is breaking protocol. Out of all the decisions that Tezuka feels conflicted about making lately, it ranks relatively low on the list.

"Still boring, though. I thought you'd at least have a gun or something."

"I would not let you back here if I had a gun."

"I'm kidding." Ryoma rolls his eyes. "Don't you get bored, though? Nothing happens in this neighborhood, and there's nothing to do in here. You don't even have any games."

"I find my work rewarding," Tezuka says, aware of how stiff and unconvincing it must sound. But it's the truth; he may not make the news for shepherding drunk salarymen to the station, or picking forgotten belongings off the street, but he takes satisfaction in performing his job diligently.

"What work? Every time I see you you're just walking around."

"There's more to my job than meets the eye."

"I guess," Ryoma says, the end of the word swallowed by a yawn.

That's as good an opening as Tezuka is going to get. "We should get you home," he says. "It's late."

He expects Ryoma to scowl and refuse, but instead, his mouth quirks up in an incongruous smile.

"Really?" he says.

"Yes," says Tezuka. "I'll call you a taxi."

He begins to walk to the door, but when he looks back, he sees Ryoma is making no move to follow him.

"Is something the matter?" he says.

"I'm not stupid," says Ryoma. "I know why you really brought me here."

Tezuka frowns. "I brought you here because I'm worried about you."

"Hn. I dunno .... I think you're just jealous."

When Tezuka realizes what he's implying, he feels the blood drain from his face.

"That's a highly inappropriate remark to make to a police officer," he says. "I would never --" 

"I saw you looking at my neck before," Ryoma says. He sounds almost bored by it. "You wanna see more?"

"No," Tezuka says, as sternly as he can. But Ryoma is already setting down his soda bottle, walking over towards him, and he can't make himself move.

"Hey, Officer," Ryoma says, when he's close enough for Tezuka to see down the open collar of his shirt. Tezuka steps back; he's now nearly against the wall. "When you think about other people having sex with me, does it make you hard?"

It feels as though the breath has been punched out of him. " _Ryoma_ ," he snaps, angrier than he means to, with his blood rushing in his ears.

But that's a mistake. 

He's never said Ryoma's name out loud before. He hadn't even been certain it was his real name, from the nonchalant way Ryoma tossed it off the first time Tezuka found him loitering near the station. It evidently is the genuine article, though, because Ryoma's eyes widen at the sound of it.

For a split second, he looks so young. Tezuka is reminded at once of his fondness for sugary soda, the fluffy cat on his cell phone lock screen, the juvenile baseball cap. Ryoma should be at home in bed right now, not riding in cars with strangers. Not here in this back room with Tezuka.

Then the expression is gone, replaced by the same lazy smirk as before.

"Relax," Ryoma says. And then he drops to his knees.

Tezuka stands there, frozen, his whole body a morass of dread as he feels Ryoma's hands at his belt. He should push him away. He should tell him to stop. He should, above all, not be responding to Ryoma's behavior.

But he's shamefully hard beneath his slacks, and when Ryoma unbuttons them, Tezuka knows he can see it, and all he can do in response is close his eyes.

With his eyes shut, every other sensation becomes that much more vivid: the smooth heat of Ryoma's mouth; the wet sound of his lips; the roving pressure of his tongue; the sharp grip of his narrow fingers against Tezuka's skin. It's all so much to take in that it makes Tezuka feel ill. Or maybe that's just what he tells himself, to justify the fact that he doesn't push Ryoma away.

He leans back against the wall, the edge of the door frame digging into his shoulders. A groan escapes his lips when Ryoma brings one hand down to cup his balls. It's a sound he's never made before. He feels utterly humiliated, but his erection doesn't flag, and Ryoma doesn't stop.

As he feels himself grow closer to orgasm, terrible visions start to populate his mind: of Ryoma bending over to suck off the driver of that very, very expensive car. Arching his back in a cheap hotel, fingers clenched in the sheets. Curled up in the lap of some anonymous salaryman in Shinjuku or Shibuya, grinding down on their hips with the exact same dispassionate expression he is most likely wearing right now as he expertly sucks Tezuka's cock.

Tezuka threads his fingers into Ryoma's hair, and draws breaths that feel almost painful.

It's only at the last second that he manages to shove Ryoma back. He means to push him away entirely, but he's not quite quick enough; he opens his eyes just in time to see a streak of his come hit Ryoma's cheek.

Tezuka feels sickened. Ryoma's lips are shiny with moisture. He licks a droplet of come off the corner of his mouth, then wipes the rest away with his palm.

After a few seconds that feel much longer than that, Ryoma stands up. 

"Don't worry, Officer," he says. His tone hasn't changed an iota from before. "I'm not gonna tell anyone."

Then he turns, goes to grab his half-empty soda bottle, and walks out.


End file.
